raw wounds

I read the majority of these poems on the beach. It was a struggle. Sun, sand, and humanity conspired to constantly deflect my attention from No Apocalypse. That selfsame destruction, denied but still conjured through just naming, crushed the elements around me, and in the wreckage I found courageous poems blooming throughout this book, poems that are self-assured but still eager to wander through the world around them. Monica Wendel’s first collection shows us a poet open to unsure footing and revelations from this fantastic mess around us.

Like A.R. Ammons’ in Garbage, Wendel is looking to craft poetry out of all available input, refusing to shy away from the most personal details or political angles. Her tastes are laid bare and she is free of agenda, crafting with the material of her life, thoughts, dreams, the borders of New York, and beyond. Within her openness, she never reads as vulnerable, exposing raw wounds for the world to bear. Rather, she processes and transmits, as poetry in its finest forms is meant to do.

At a party to raise bail for those incarcerated,
a half-dozen anarchofeminists wore armbands
and patrolled the dance floor for safer-space violations.
One of them got so drunk she ended up on the roof, yelling
to a mostly-silent Manhattan skyline: hands cupped to her mouth,
skinny arms jutting out like wings from her face.
[from For the Birds]

There’s no doubt that this language is charged, but while the lay reader may recoil at such familiar usage of the term “anarchofeminists”, Wendel gives no quarter and expects none. Rather, she is comfortable bringing this language to the fore and demanding the reader step along, to the edge of the roof, to take in the Manhattan skyline, where a conscientious party is still a party, especially when the wings are open wide and we all throw out our voices.

Surely Wendel has a built-in audience, but this book is open to all, allowing context to do the heavy lifting and language to play out as required. As such, the poet often shifts forms, winding lines long and small into poetry that is readable but sparking fires left and right. Wendel refuses to let speech be hemmed in by strict designations such as “poetic” or “political.” She posits that there is no separation between them.

These poems are a form of astral projection, winding around the world we recognize but demanding a confrontation with injustice, arguing that maybe acknowledgement—not just answers—is all we need.

on pit bull puppies, roosters,
sweatshop sewn sneakers. We eat
standing up in the cold kitchen.

Gestures, grand and diminutive, poetic and otherwise, made with integrity. That integrity, along with strength of line, innate musicality, and willingness to do what’s best for the poem, make No Apocalypse not only a book worth savoring but a testament to the voracious mind of Monica Wendel. You will find no detritus in her lines or thinking, no ashes covering the ground, just a need to write towards what she feels is worth confronting.